


Failure

by TheKatlocker (TheKat79)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Season/Series 03, Three-Garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 00:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13776231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKat79/pseuds/TheKatlocker
Summary: An unspectacular case lead to an almost deadly injury for John. Sherlock saved his life and stayed by his side until John woke up in hospital three days later and something unexpected happened.





	Failure

**Author's Note:**

> I always wanted to write a three-garridebs story, so here it is.

It all began very unspectacularly. The case wasn't even that exciting, barely a four on Sherlock's scale and he almost refused before he had even heard the whole story, but they had had a bit of a dry spell lately. London's finest criminals seemed to have been on holidays for weeks at the time. There wasn't a single interesting case where the Yard needed Sherlock's assistance and that always made him twitchy.   
To be honest, Sherlock seemed to be on edge ever since John had moved back into Baker Street after the whole Mary disaster. He assured John that he was welcomed back and always would be, that it was as much John's home as it was Sherlock's, but something was off and John had no idea what it was.   
It was as if Sherlock was constantly on the watch. He was extremely pleasant, obliging even. Sherlock kept the kitchen tidy, the fridge contained nothing else than food, nothing exploded or was destroyed in the course of questionable experiments. There was even a constant supply of milk in the fridge and John wasn't the one who stocked it up. There was absolutely no reason for John to complain whatsoever.   
It was awful. 

This was not Sherlock, at least not the Sherlock John had grown used to over the years. Not the one he had missed so much while he was away from Baker Street and John simply wanted him back.   
He wanted their easy companionship, he wanted to work with him, he wanted to be woken up by a violin at three in the morning. John wanted to yell at Sherlock because of body parts in the fridge or an experiment gone terribly wrong. He wanted quiet nights with tea and a fire in the mantle. He wanted to force Sherlock into a Bond marathon, so that he could listen to him yelling at the TV about the stupidity of it all. He wanted to giggle at crime scenes and he wanted to come home after cases, high on adrenaline and endorphins.   
John wanted all of those things back, but he also wanted so much more than just friendship. He wanted to be with Sherlock, in every way Sherlock was willing to give him.   
John had been in love with him for so long that he couldn't even remember when it all started. Probably on that first night back at Angelo's when Sherlock had healed his limp and John had shot a man to save his life. It felt like he had been in love with Sherlock forever and that was probably true. 

John had no idea if they would ever be more than best friends, but he would never give up hope. They had drifted closer and closer since he was back at Baker Street, but something seemed off with Sherlock nonetheless. John desperately wished things would be like before Moriarty had separated them and before Mary came in the way.   
That's why John literally forced him to take that case. John hoped it would give them an opportunity to work together again, maybe even be on a stakeout in a deserted house where they might have an opportunity to talk about certain things. Quiet nights in dark places had helped them talking about personal things on earlier occasions, so maybe it could help. 

The case was about a rich, elderly couple, the McDermott's, that were missing different items from their household, mostly jewelry and valuable heirlooms, and suspected one of their many domestic servants of theft. There was a butler, a cook, a gardener and two maids that worked at the house constantly and a few others that came to the household occasionally.  
Mrs McDermott suspected one of the maids, since the items seemed to get lost every time the McDermotts were away for a couple of days and there was no evidence for housebreaking, but she had no solid evidence against one or the other.  
Sherlock checked the CVs of all the people working in the household very thoroughly. There had also been a few construction works over the summer so he checked those workers too, but none of them really seemed to have a motive or the criminal background. So John and Sherlock decided to observe the house the next time the McDermotts were away for a couple of days. 

It was a stormy Friday night in November when they finally made their way to the impressive old property in one of the finer suburbs of London. Their clients had made sure that all of the servants had their day off and weren't disturbing them when they entered the house through the back door in the early evening, just after dark.   
John and Sherlock took a stroll through the house, to get familiar with the place, before they decided to hide inside the ensuite bathroom of the master bedroom. Most of Mrs McDermott's jewelry was kept in the bedroom and the adjoining dressing room so chances were good that an invader would end up in one of those rooms sooner or later. 

Sherlock was sitting on the rim of an enormous bathtub with golden, ornate taps and towel rails, where he was able to overlook the front yard through a large window with white sash bars. John was sitting beside him on the floor on a luxurious rug, head leaning back against the tub. The room was dark, with only the sparse light from the street lamps reflecting on the white tiles but their eyes had adjusted to the darkness so they were able to see reasonably well.   
The storm had intensified since they had set foot into the house, which made observing unnecessarily harder. All the trees and bushes outside were in motion and the wind made a lot of noise while blowing around the house, rattling at the window shutters.   
Sherlock kept a wary eye on their surroundings but other than that they were both pretty relaxed, chatting quietly about old cases. A maid steeling jewelry from her employers wasn't supposed to be very dangerous after all. The conversation wasn't exactly what John had been hoping for but the night was still young and they might well sit here all night, so plenty of time to talk about the important things in life, or so John thought. 

“Do you remember the Carson case, Sherlock? We were running all around London and you were only able to solve it because you stumbled and nearly fell into the Thames,” John chuckled.   
“I did not stumble, I slipped on a nasty surface of ice, John.”  
“Yeah, course you did. In the middle of April,” John teased with a smirk.   
“It was march,” Sherlock huffed.   
“It was not.” John stated. “And I had to save you by dragging you back by the waistband of your trousers before you toppled over the balustrade,” John laughed quietly.   
“Why is it even the Carson case? Didn't you give it one of your tedious, soppy titles?”  
“I didn't bother since you forbid me to put it on the blog.”  
“I did not forbid you anything.”  
“Yeah, you did.” John nudged Sherlock's leg with his elbow and grinned. “I could come up with one, though.”  
John thought about it for a few seconds.   
“Hmm, let's see. The case of the nasty surface.”   
Sherlock groaned.   
“Hmm, the case of the toppling detective?”  
“John,” Sherlock groaned again.   
“The case of the redemptive waistband.” John chuckled.   
“Not funny.”   
Sherlock nudged John's upper arm with his fist and let his hand drop on top of John's shoulder. John looked up at Sherlock, finding a wide grin on his beautiful face and his chest went wide. Sherlock's eyes were shining so bright that John could see them despite the darkness in the room. He reached up to place his own hand on top of Sherlock's and gave it a squeeze.   
“Good old days,” John whispered and something shifted in Sherlock's gaze. His expression became serious but there was also something else there, something John couldn't identify just now. Sherlock's hand was warm on John's shoulder and he started drawing small circles with his thumb.   
Their eyes locked and suddenly the tension in the room was palpable. Sherlock's breathing had gotten a bit faster and John could feel his own heartrate picking up speed. They stared into each other's eyes for what felt like ages, John's hand never leaving Sherlock's, until they heard a rattling noise from the adjoining bedroom. Sherlock immediately raised his free hand in the air, gesturing for John to be quiet while he strained his ears. He made his way over to the door, pulling away his hand from under John's and John already missed the warmth of it. John got up from the floor to follow him while Sherlock pressed his ear to the door.   
“There's someone in the bedroom,” Sherlock whispered over his shoulder and John's heartrate went up a bit more, but this time in excitement over the case. Sherlock pressed his ear to the door again, listening intently until he turned back to John in one swift motion. He leaned close, bracing one hand on John's upper arm and whispered directly into his ear.   
“One person only. Has rummaged around in the bedroom and is now in the dressing room.”  
John could feel Sherlock's warm breath against the shell of his ear, his low baritone seemed to resonate in John's body and he couldn't help the slight shiver running down his spine. Sherlock stayed close to him a few seconds longer than strictly necessary and John felt the puffs of Sherlock's breath getting a bit faster before he drew back slowly, giving John's upper arm a light squeeze. Their eyes locked in the dimly lit bathroom and they both nodded curtly.   
They had been working together for years now and either of them knew exactly what to do. John reached around his back to pull his weapon out of the waistband of his jeans while Sherlock opened the door slowly, without a single sound. John slipped out behind him and positioned himself beside the open door to the corridor, the hand with the gun loosely by his side, while Sherlock went over to the massive bed, standing right beside the light switch.   
The door to the dressing room was ajar and they could see a light from a torch flickering over the walls. There was a bit of rattling and shuffling while someone searched the room and John and Sherlock waited patiently until they heard the person coming back to the bedroom door. Sherlock flicked the lights on as soon as the person entered the bedroom and John held his gun a bit tighter by his side.   
“Good evening,” Sherlock said, startling the lanky, young man in front of them. John took a closer look at him. It wasn't even a man, it was a boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with a black jumper, hood over his head so deep that they were barely able to see his eyes. Dark jeans and trainers and a backpack in one hand.   
“Oliver Davis, I assume,” Sherlock sounded smug, “son of Mrs Lydia Davis, the house maid.”  
The boy's eyes went wide like saucers.   
“Who are you?”  
“Your mother has worked for the McDermott's for ten years and seven months now and they are paying her reasonably well. Why would you...”

Sherlock didn't get any further than that because suddenly there was a thud behind John and they all turned around to see another man in similar dark clothes in the doorframe leading to the corridor. John saw dark eyes staring back at him and then heard a brazen click about a second before he felt a stabbing pain on the left side of his ribcage and then everything around him seemed to explode into turmoil.   
He heard Sherlock yelling his name and the man behind him yelled something about running while the pain in John's torso intensified. He reached around his ribs with his right hand and pressed it to the spot where the pain came from. When he pulled it back it was dark red and wet from blood. His blood.   
“Fuck,” John cursed and pressed his hand back to the wound. 

The next thing he knew was that he found himself on his knees while someone ran past him and then Sherlock's face was in front of his own and he looked terribly worried.   
“John, you... you've been stabbed.”  
“Yeah, I know. Call an ambulance, would you?” John had trouble breathing and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again he saw Sherlock hastily pulling out his phone and John dropped his head because he started feeling dizzy. There was blood dripping onto the thick, beige rug below his knees. A lot of blood. John's vision blurred and he felt nauseous. He heard Sherlock talking hurriedly into the phone while John slumped to the side that wasn't injured.   
“John!”  
Sherlock caught him by the shoulders, mobile phone slipping from his hand in the process and lowered John slowly to the floor. John saw him take off his scarf and then there was a dull pressure against his ribcage.   
Sherlock tried to stop the bleeding, John's mind helpfully provided. Good, that's good.   
John could hear blood rushing in his ears while he was getting more and more dizzy. He could smell the coppery scent of his own blood which made him even more nauseous.   
He saw Sherlock's lips moving but John couldn't make out a single word. Sherlock's cheeks were deathly pale and wet, his eyes red, but John had no idea what that meant.   
The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness were two blue-green eyes staring at him in horror and his last thought was that he needed to see those eyes again. 

 

John opened his eyes very, very slowly. Everything seemed to hurt. His eyes because of a glancing light that was located somewhere directly above him. There was a dull pain in his head that was intensified by the stinging in his eyes. An annoying beeping sound grated on his ears and at the side of his ribcage was a throbbing pain. His throat was terribly dry when he tried to swallow and his lips were chapped when he licked at them with a tongue much too dry for his liking.   
As soon as John's eyes got used to the light he took a look around. He was in a hospital bed, intensive care unit, going by the excessive amount of medical equipment all around him. There was a tube in his nose and an infusion in his right arm, dripping slowly from a translucent bag above his head. 

And then he saw Sherlock, sitting in a plastic chair right beside his bed and his heart swell. He was fast asleep, one hand holding John's in a loose grip. His hair was a mess, his face even paler than it usually was. There was quite a bit of stubble around alarmingly hollow cheeks and dark shadows under his eyes. His suit was completely rumpled. Sherlock looked as if he had been sitting in this chair for days and John's chest clenched.   
This was wrong, terribly wrong. Sherlock wasn't supposed to look like that. He was supposed to look amazing and beautiful and gorgeous with eyes shining and cheeks glowing in excitement.   
How long had John been lying in this bed, for God's sake?   
John squeezed Sherlock's hand very slightly, just to make sure that he was really there. He didn't want to wake him but Sherlock stirred in his chair immediately, eyes flying open. There was a second where Sherlock seemed to be disoriented and then his eyes found John's and grew incredibly wide. His eyes were red rimmed and swollen and John had no idea if from crying or lack of sleep until Sherlock moved closer and John saw tears flooding his eyes.  
“John.”   
It sounded like the most important word in the world, despite Sherlock's voice being hoarse and shaking. Sherlock got up, nearly toppling over the plastic chair in his haste and leaned over him, one hand braced on the bed beside John's head, the other gripping John's hand tighter. John smiled a little smile, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest.   
“Hey,” he whispered, voice even more hoarse than Sherlock's from disuse. “You look terrible,” John croaked and Sherlock's eyes started lighting up and he chuckled through his tears. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.   
“What happened?”  
“You got stabbed.” Sherlock's voice was trembling.   
That explained the throbbing pain on his left side.   
“The case.” John remembered. The bedroom, stolen jewelry, a boy with a backpack, someone appearing behind John, Sherlock's eyes full of horror.   
“Yes.” Tears were running down Sherlock's cheeks now, dropping onto John's chin.   
“I failed.” Sherlock cast his eyes down.   
“What?” John didn't understand.   
“I miscalculated. There was a second person in the house. He stabbed you, John. I'm so sorry.”  
“Hey, that wasn't your fault.” John squeezed Sherlock's hand.   
“Of course it was. I should have known, I should have observed better, but I was distracted.” Sherlock looked back up, his eyes desperate and full of tears.   
“Distracted?” John furrowed his brows.   
“I... it's... nevermind.” Sherlock wasn't able to hold John's gaze.   
“How long have I been here?”  
“Three days,” Sherlock whispered and swallowed hard.   
“And you've been here all the time?”  
“Obviously.” Sherlock almost looked ashamed.   
John chuckled a bit although it hurt terribly and Sherlock finally met his gaze again.   
“God, I'm glad you're here, Sherlock,” John whispered and touched Sherlock's upper arm.   
Sherlock wiped away his own tears from John's chin with a trembling thumb and suddenly there was a hand cupping John's face and lips pressing against his own, moving tentatively and John's brain needed a few seconds to catch up. But just as he realized that Sherlock was kissing him, Jesus, he was kissing him and John wanted to kiss him back, Sherlock pulled away as if he had been burned, letting go of John entirely.   
“I... I'm sorry... I...” Sherlock stuttered.   
“Sherlock,” John whispered and wanted to grab his arm, but Sherlock pulled back completely, out of John's reach and stumbled backwards to the door.   
“Forgive me,” Sherlock breathed, eyes wide in horror and was out of the room before John was able to say something other than his name. 

John's heart was beating rapidly in his chest. Sherlock had kissed him. His lips had been dry and chapped and warm and tentative and it was the best kiss John had ever got.   
The door opened again and a nurse followed by a doctor came rushing into the room. John's high heart rate had probably alarmed them.   
“Dr. Watson, you're awake,” a middle-aged man in a white coat greeted him and started examining him thoroughly, but John couldn't pay him any attention. Not when Sherlock had just kissed him and had run off as if he had been bitten by a tarantula before John has had a chance to respond. 

 

John didn't see Sherlock for the next three days. He was moved out of intensive care early the next morning but had to stay in hospital for another three days until the physicians were content with his healing process. He learned that he had been stabbed with a flick knife and his spleen had been perforated in the process. He had lost a lot of blood in the McDermott's bedroom and it had apparently been a close call. Sherlock had pressed onto the wound to stop the bleeding until the paramedics had arrived and had saved his life by doing so. John had been in emergency surgery immediately after the ambulance had dropped him off at the hospital to save his spleen and he had apparently been unconscious for almost three days.   
The nurses told him that Sherlock had never left his side, holding his hand and talking to him continuously, begging him to wake up. Sherlock hadn't eaten a single bite during those three days and the nurses had had a hard time to at least keep him hydrated. He had only left John's side when he needed to use the loo. 

John texted him as soon as he got his belongings back.   
‘Hey Sherlock, where are you?’  
He didn't get a response for over an hour so he tried again.   
‘Sherlock are you alright?’  
Still no response for another hour so he tried once more.   
'Sherlock, please talk to me.'  
It took another hour before John's phone finally chimed with an incoming text message. He took it from the nightstand immediately.   
'I'm fine. SH'  
'That's good. Where are you?'  
Sherlock's response took another half an hour and John just wanted to jump out of his hospital bed to go and find him.   
‘At home. SH’  
‘Could you come back, please?’  
‘Busy. Case. SH’  
John groaned and rubbed his face with both hands. He just wanted Sherlock by his side. He was still in a lot of pain and he wasn't feeling well at all. He could use his best friend's company right now.   
John had no idea what to do. Sherlock had kissed him, willingly so, but John had been too slow to respond in his weakened state. He wanted to talk to Sherlock, wanted to tell him that it was alright, that he could do it again and give John a chance to reciprocate, but how should he do that when Sherlock didn't come back to the hospital? Hell, he didn't even answer John's texts properly. 

John waited until the evening before he sent another text.   
‘Did you solve the case? I could use a bit of company here.’  
John waited for a long time for an answer that never came and finally dropped his phone back on the nightstand way past midnight. 

John sent a lot of texts early the next morning, but didn't get an answer for a single one of them and he got more and more frustrated. He had no idea what Sherlock was up to, why he avoided him like the plague when everything John wanted was to have him here and give him the kiss he deserved.   
There were a lot of people coming into his room all day long, it was a hospital after all, and John looked up hopeful every single time, but none of them were Sherlock. 

To John's great relief Mrs Hudson came by to visit him in the evening.   
“John, thank goodness!”   
There were tears in her eyes when she walked over to press a kiss to his forehead.   
“I thought... I... thank God.” She patted his cheek with a trembling hand, the other one pressed to her chest.   
“Mrs Hudson, what's wrong?”  
“I thought you were dying,” she whispered and a tear rolled down her cheek. John's chest clenched.   
“Why would you think that?”   
“Sherlock, he...” her lips were trembling.   
“What? What's wrong with him?” John asked urgently.   
“The... the way he behaved...”  
“What was he doing?”  
“You know I've been away at my sister's over the weekend and when I came home yesterday afternoon Sherlock was playing the violin, not talking a single word. He didn't even say hello when I came upstairs, but he's Sherlock, he does that all the time, doesn't he?”  
“Yes, he does.” John gave her a sympathetic smile.   
“So I came back upstairs a few hours later. He had been playing without a pause for hours but he still refused to talk and didn't even look at me. So I left him alone, you know how he can be and then later that night I found him sulking on the sofa and he looked terrible. He hadn't showered or shaved for days and he was pale, terribly pale. I asked him where you were and he just yelled at me to leave him alone. There were tears in his eyes, John.”  
John took her trembling hand and squeezed.   
“But I thought it's just one of his moods. Later I heard him playing his violin again. I'm pretty sure he played half through the night. When I came upstairs in the morning with his morning tea he was sitting in his armchair, staring into thin air. He didn't talk. I don't even know if he noticed that I was there, John.”  
“That still doesn't explain why you thought I was dying.”  
”I left him alone and went back upstairs to bring him his afternoon tea about an hour ago. He was playing again, but this time I took the violin straight out of his hands and told him to talk to me.”  
“And what did he say?”  
“He said you've been stabbed and that you won't come back home, so I thought...” She burst into tears. “Oh, John.”  
“Mrs Hudson, I'm fine. I got stabbed but I'm going to be alright. I'll come home tomorrow.”  
“But why would he say that, John?” She looked completely devastated. “What's going on?”  
“I'll talk to him.” John placed a hand on her cheek and closed his eyes to take a deep breath. 

As soon as Mrs Hudson had left, John sent another text.   
‘I'll be released tomorrow morning. Can you pick me up?’  
This time the answer came within minutes.   
‘Mycroft will send a car. SH’  
“Jesus,” John groaned and typed furiously.   
'I don't want a fucking car from bloody Mycroft. I want my bloody best friend to pick me up and take me home!'  
John's phone stayed silent for a very long time and he had almost given up hope when finally there came a text.   
‘I'll be there. SH’  
“Thank God.” John rubbed his face and lay back on the pillow. He needed to think. He needed to talk to Sherlock first thing in the morning. And most of all, he needed to kiss his lunatic of a best friend to stop him from running away. John closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep. 

There was a knock on John's door early the next morning.   
“Come in,” John called and the door opened slowly.   
Sherlock stood in the doorframe in his coat and suit, looking everywhere but at John.   
“Good morning, John,” he said quietly with one hand on the doorknob and a little bag in the other.   
“Hey. I'm glad to see you.” John smiled at him.   
Sherlock closed the door behind him and brought the bag over to place it at the end of the bed.   
“I brought you some clothes,” Sherlock told him with a vague gesture of his hand.   
“Thank you.”  
“How are feeling?” Sherlock's voice sounded so small, so unlike himself.   
“Bit better than when you stormed out of the ICU.”  
Sherlock nodded, eyes still fixed on the bag.  
“That's good.”  
John regarded him intently. Sherlock looked as pale as when he had left the hospital three days ago. He was freshly showered and shaved but his cheeks were still alarmingly hollow. His hair was styled but it looked dull, his hands were trembling slightly, where they were hanging by his sides.   
“Sherlock?” John started carefully.   
“I'll just wait outside until you're finished then, shall I?” Sherlock turned on his heels.   
“Sherlock, can I talk to you?”  
“There's nothing to talk about.” He made his way to the door and reached for the doorknob.   
“You scared Mrs Hudson to death.” John said, a bit louder.   
That, finally, stopped Sherlock. He let his hand fall away from the doorknob.  
“You told her I was not coming back home. She thought I would die, for God's sake!”  
Sherlock's shoulders slumped.   
“I know, I... didn't mean... I've expressed myself unfavourably ... I've apologized to her last night.” He sounded completely forlorn.   
John sat up in bed slowly, careful not to move too quickly, since his injury still hurt like hell.   
“What did you want to say, then?”  
Sherlock's head dropped to his chest. He inhaled deeply and when he started talking again his voice was as small as John had ever heard it.   
“Well, I'm assuming you're going to move out rather sooner than later.”  
John's heart rate picked up.   
“I'm sorry what?”  
“You heard me.”  
“Yeah, but I don't understand you.”  
“Don't make this any harder than it already is, John.”  
John was completely baffled. This was the most absurd conversation they had ever had and that was saying something.   
“Sherlock?”  
“I'll meet you at the cab outside.” And with that Sherlock left the room.   
John got out of bed as quickly as he could manage but his injury stopped him from rushing after Sherlock and also the hospital gown he was wearing that was open at the back. He really didn't want to have, what could easily turn out to be the most important conversation of his life and what might or might not happen afterwards with his bare arse hanging out. So instead he grabbed the bag that Sherlock had brought and took his clothes out. Sherlock had packed his favourite jeans, the ones that were pretty washed out but extremely comfortable and his favourite jumper and John couldn't help but smile. The idiot knew him damn well.   
“You're not going to run away from me, Sherlock Holmes,” John told the door and changed as quickly as he could manage.   
He signed the paperwork and left the hospital through the large front door. Sherlock was leaning against a cab in front of the hospital and walked over to meet him as soon as John came out of the door. Sherlock took his bag and opened the cab door to help him inside, but he never met John's eyes. 

They started the cab ride home in complete silence and John was at a loss what to do. He didn't want to have this conversation with a cabbie listening in, but he didn't want to wait until they were in Baker Street either. Sherlock was tied up in knots, the fingers of his left hand drumming restlessly on top of his thigh while the right one was clenched around the door handle.   
So John did the only thing he could think of. He reached over and covered Sherlock's twitching hand with his own. Sherlock stilled immediately and John could see his eyes growing wide, staring down at their joined hands. John intertwined their fingers slowly and pulled Sherlock's hand into his lap, where he let it rest on top of his thigh.   
He gave Sherlock a minute to proceed before he started painting small circles onto the back of his hand with his thumb. Sherlock sat very still through the whole ride, staring out the window, his free hand pressed against his mouth. 

When they reached Baker Street he paid the cabbie and helped John out of the cab. Sherlock opened the front door and as soon as they stepped into the corridor Mrs Hudson came rushing out of her flat.   
“John, you're home. Thank God!”  
“Hi Mrs Hudson.”  
She pulled him into a light hug, kissing his cheek.   
“How are you feeling?”  
“I'm fine.” John tried to smile but he knew that it looked forced.   
“You're a liar, John Watson.”   
She patted his upper arm.   
“It still hurts, a bit,” he admitted.   
She turned to Sherlock with her index finger in the air.   
“You bring him upstairs and look after him, young man. I'll be there with tea and scones in a minute.”  
John wanted nothing more than tea and scones right now after almost a week in hospital but he needed to talk to Sherlock first.   
“Actually Mrs Hudson, could you give us a minute? We need to talk.”  
Mrs Hudson looked from John to Sherlock, who looked equally alarmed and relieved by John's statement, and back to John and nodded.   
“Yes, of course, I won't disturb you.”  
“I would be very happy about tea and scones later though.” John hoped he hadn't put her off but she just smiled and patted his cheek.   
“Of course, dear.”

John walked up the stairs slowly, trying not to move his torso too much in the process. Sherlock followed close behind, dropping John's back beside the door on the landing. Sherlock helped him out of his coat and followed him into the flat, getting rid of his own coat on the way.   
“Tea?” Sherlock asked and turned to the kitchen.   
“Later. Can we talk first?”  
Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his back turned to John. He started talking rapidly, as if he was making a deduction at a crime scene.   
“John, you just came home from hospital, you should sit down and put your feet up and have a cup of tea and rest or better go to bed and sleep and...”  
“I'm fine,” John interrupted.   
Sherlock whirled around to face him, eyes wild.   
“No, you're not fine, John. You've been stabbed and you nearly died and it was all my fault because I weren't paying attention what happened around us, I only... I should have recognized that there was someone else in the house, someone with a knife, for God's sake...” Sherlock sounded desperate now, his arms flailing wildly in the air.   
”… you've been unconscious for three days, John and when you finally woke up and were at your weakest, I... I exploited the fact that...”  
“Sherlock?”  
“What?”  
“Shut up.” John said fondly and Sherlock's mouth snapped shut, eyes piercing into John's with his brows drawn together.   
“Listen, I was wondering,” John cleared his throat. “This thing that you did, in the hospital, after I woke up.”  
The crease above Sherlock's nose got deeper and he tilted his head a little.   
“Could you maybe... do that again?”  
“What?”  
“That thing with your lips on mine, you know.” John gestured between them with a little smile. He stepped closer and waited. Sherlock stared at him and blinked and blinked and blinked some more. He tried to talk several times but no word came out until he had cleared his throat twice.   
“You... you mean...”  
“Hmm, yes,” John told him.   
Sherlock opened his mouth and took a deep breath, as if he wanted to say something else and then he shut it again with a snap so John stepped right into his space.   
“You never gave me a chance to reciprocate, you know.”  
John smiled up at him and Sherlock stared down.   
“I didn't?”  
“Nope.” John shook his head.   
Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded, brows furrowing again.   
“But I... should?”  
“That's what people normally do.”  
Sherlock nodded again and John grinned and then Sherlock took that last little step forward so that their fronts were touching. And suddenly John heard his own heart hammering in his ears because both of Sherlock's large hands were cupping his face. John took a deep breath and he saw Sherlock doing the same and then there were warm lips brushing against his own, so softly and John's arms slipped around Sherlock's waist on their own volition. And then Sherlock was kissing him properly with his hands on John's face and that felt absolutely right and he finally got the chance to respond. Their lips were moving gently together while their bodies pressed carefully closer.   
John slipped his tongue out to trace over Sherlock's lower lip and Sherlock opened his mouth to let him in, so John licked carefully and found Sherlock's tongue and he heard Sherlock sigh in relief and that felt bloody fantastic.   
One of Sherlock's hands moved around the back of John's head and held him there while he traced John's cheek with the thumb of his other hand and John deepened the kiss until they were both breathless. 

Sherlock pulled back slowly, cradling John's head in both hands once more, caressing his cheeks with both thumbs. The look in his eyes was so incredibly fond that John's heart nearly melted right then and there.   
“You should really sit down and rest, John, you must be hurting,” Sherlock whispered.   
“Hmm, yes, but only if you're coming with me.”  
Sherlock smiled.   
“What else would I do?”  
“Erm, I could think of a few things,” John grinned devilishly at him and Sherlock's pupils dilated. Sherlock took a deep breath and composed himself.   
“Stab wound, John, remember?”  
“Pity,” John whispered and then Sherlock's lips were back on his own. 

They spent the rest of the day on the sofa with tea and Mrs Hudson's scones. Sherlock pulled out a movie that he hated but John loved. They settled on the sofa with John carefully propped up against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's hands were stroking through his hair, up and down John's arms and over his torso and John almost forgot that his wound still hurt like hell.   
Sherlock started complaining about the film at some point and yelled at the television a bit later and John just smiled and leaned back further into Sherlock.   
They ordered Chinese in the evening and when John got tired Sherlock followed him down the corridor and into the bathroom and helped him to get ready for bed with gentle hands.   
There was a second of insecurity when they left the bathroom, neither of them really knowing what would happen next until Sherlock took a heart and nodded in the direction of his bedroom and John happily walked through the door.   
Sherlock helped him under the covers and pulled the sheets over John's body, once he was properly settled on his back and then he lingered by the bed, insecure of what to do. John just lifted the covers and Sherlock crawled in bed beside him without a word, shifting carefully closer until he was rolled up on his side facing John.   
John searched until he found Sherlock's hand on the mattress beside him, intertwined their fingers and closed his eyes. He heard Sherlock sigh happily and shuffling closer until their bodies were touching. Sherlock's free hand slipped around John's waist in a possessive gesture and that's when John drifted off with a smile on his lips.


End file.
